A box from the company, Making Everlasting Memories, sat on my dining room table, unopened for two weeks. I knew exactly what was inside but I couldn’t bring myself to see it and thumb through again like I had at my father’s house.
I’d had the funeral company send off the images from the slideshow that played at your wake and funeral to make it into a book because I figured that everyone who loves you show have access to those images of happier days. I also wanted to make sure my brothers had all the same photos that I had or received since you passed. The book arrived just as we hit a difficult milestone.
Six months ago I lost the ability to see you smile in person, to hear you talk or laugh or to feel your touch. But, in the time that’s passed I can sense your presence, hear your voice in my head and can remember nearly everything you told me, including your advice and life lesson. It gets me through the difficult days that are filled with a lot of silence because I can’t physically be with my of my family, friends, or even coworkers. Thankfully, the rough days have lessened and the positive memories make me laugh or smile more and more. I can say your name or tell stories about you without crying. I no longer ask myself if I could’ve done more to save you. I don’t panic, wondering if my father will okay without you after five decades. And, I’ve learned that you not being here In the flesh doesn’t mean you’re not here with me in spirit.
(If for some reason you’d like a copy of my mother’s memory book you can get it at: keepsakes.mem.com The story id is: 9354466)
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